The Scarlet Nightingale

by Alan Titchmarsh

  I suppose I should have realised that Lord Belgate would be involved in the war effort in some way, despite his age. (He and Lady Belgate had Billy relatively late in life – Billy always used to say he was an afterthought – so Charles was past retirement age when war broke out.) The fact that Lord Belgate mostly sat quietly at Aunt Venetia’s luncheons, and that when he did ‘chip in’, as he put it, his remarks were always thoughtfully considered rather than impetuous, made it quite clear that if he were not an active part of wartime proceedings, then at least his grasp of them was comprehensive and well-reasoned. It made perfect sense that such an intellect should not be wasted.

  After discovering the note, I went down to lunch with Aunt Venetia. When we had no visitors, Aunt Venetia still insisted on having our modest meal at the round table in the upstairs first-floor window on what she still referred to as the ‘piano nobile’ – a phrase which caused the more worldly of her guests to raise an eyebrow or disguise a smile. There would be a neatly ironed white damask cloth (‘cleanliness and standards are not rationed’, she would regularly inform Mrs Heffer, who would occasionally try to cut corners by turning yesterday’s cloth upside down to get two meals out of it instead of just the one) and the best silver and crystal would be laid for just the two of us.

  This, I came to realise, was my aunt’s way of showing Hitler that he was not going to change her habits of a lifetime – or at least that part of her life which she had enjoyed since her marriage and her move to 29, Eaton Square. I can see, now, with the benefit of old age, why it meant so much to her.

  There were few in the Second World War who felt quite so impotent as the elderly. If they had fought in the Great War, the apparent futility of such conflict – when 700,000 British soldiers were killed – came home to roost. That was meant to be ‘the war to end all wars’ and yet here we were, sending our young men – and in some cases, women – off to fight on our behalf once more. The ‘Homes Fit For Heroes’ had, in most cases, not materialised; the few that did were enjoyed for just twenty years before war was declared once more.

  ‘Why can’t they send the old?’ my aunt would ask from time to time, her voice ringing with anger and frustration at yet more reports of loss of life in her morning perusal of the Daily Sketch. ‘At least we’ve had a life.’

  I soon discovered that the only way to jolt her out of her depressing reverie was to tease her. ‘Because I doubt you could even lift a Bren gun, Auntie, let alone stay upright when you fire it.’

  ‘I could try,’ she would reply defiantly.

  ‘Just the once?’

  ‘A Lewis gun, then. You operate those lying down.’

  ‘That’s alright then. You can join the Home Guard. They have a few Lewis guns at their disposal. We can position you in your nightie and nightcap on the top of the white cliffs of Dover and you can have a pop at anything coming over.’

  At this point Aunt Venetia would realise that I was unlikely ever to take seriously her offer of volunteering for close combat. Then she would say, resignedly, ‘Well, I suppose I’d better just stick to my dinner parties.’

  ‘What do you know about Lord Belgate?’ I asked her over our lunch – a rather watery soup that Mrs Heffer was pleased to call ‘cock-a-leekie’, though it owed more to boiled greens than either chicken or leeks.

  ‘What makes you ask?’ my aunt replied without looking up.

  ‘It’s just that of all your lunch and dinner guests, he seems to be the one who says least and knows most.’

  Aunt Venetia laid down her spoon. ‘Very observant. Patrick Felpham makes the most noise but Charles Belgate is the better informed. Is that what you are suggesting?’

  I didn’t answer her immediately, simply because I didn’t know what I was suggesting, really; I just wanted to find out why he would have put a piece of paper in my parcel which carried a phone number and his two initials and nothing else. Maybe he just wanted me to call him … socially. No! Lord Belgate could not be that sort of man, surely? And so, for my own peace of mind as much as anything, I asked my aunt if he was anything to do with the war, rather than the retired old gentleman he appeared to be. I have not forgotten her answer: ‘Never judge a book by its cover, Rosamund. And when it comes to men, the quiet ones are always the deepest.’

  Later that evening, when my aunt had retired to bed having heard that the Germans were laying siege to Leningrad, I picked up the telephone to dial the number. I knew it would be futile. The line had been down for weeks. I listened. There was a dial tone. The line had been repaired. It did occur to me at that point that perhaps one of ‘the quiet ones’ had been responsible.

  I dialled PAD 1739. There were barely two rings at the other end of the line before my call was answered: ‘Who’s speaking?’ It was a woman’s voice – young, brisk, efficient.

  I said that I was Rosamund Hanbury and half expected to be told by my interlocutor that I had the wrong number. But instead she said, ‘Just a moment, please.’

  I waited, and after a few moments and various clicks another woman’s voice came on the line. She asked me to confirm that I was Miss Hanbury and when I said I was, she said that it was good of me to call, and that she wondered if we might meet. I muttered something to the effect that we could, and she asked if it was convenient to meet at eleven o’clock the following morning in St James’s Park. She explained that there was a bench by a weeping willow tree near the water and that I would recognise it because there was a slat missing on the back. It’s funny what you remember …

  It all sounded terribly cloak-and-dagger, and I felt my heart pounding. It was all I could do to answer in the affirmative. I asked for her name, but she did not give me one. Instead, she said that she would be easy to recognise because she would be wearing a blue two-piece and a black hat, and carrying a brown-paper parcel. (Brown-paper parcels were obviously going to be some kind of leitmotif from now on.)

  I don’t think I slept at all that night. And the following day at eleven o’clock in St James’s Park I met the woman who would be instrumental in changing the course of my life. Her name was Doris Kilgarth.

  Chapter 12

  LONDON

  AUGUST 1941

  ‘Courage is the price that Life exacts for granting peace.

  The soul that knows it not, knows no release

  From little things.’

  Amelia Earhart, ‘Courage’, 1927

  Doris Kilgarth was not the sort of woman to mince words; neither was she fond of overdramatising. The term ‘matter-of-fact’ could have been invented for her. Not that she was without humanity, or good humour; it was just that neither of these sensibilities evidenced themselves with any frequency, and certainly not on first meeting. Rosamund would eventually come to like her, and from the very beginning felt that she could trust her, though she was never quite sure just how much she ever really knew this small, stocky woman with the bob of white hair, which framed her face like the wimple of a nun.

  Their first meeting in St James’s Park was conducted cautiously by both parties: Doris Kilgarth scrutinised Rosamund through her round, horn-rimmed glasses rather as an entomologist might examine a hitherto-unknown species of beetle, and Rosamund was wary of committing herself to anything until she was sure she could trust her.

  At first the conversation involved little more than pleasantries. Doris Kilgarth was the first person Rosamund had ever met who used small talk as a weapon. Not given to such time-wasting habits as a rule, Miss Kilgarth appreciated its usefulness not just at warming people up but also at catching the unwary off guard. She enquired about Rosamund’s childhood, her affinity with the countryside and her current daily activities. Then, having satisfied herself that her prey was completely relaxed, she asked, ‘And you speak French?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fluently?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Celine de Rossignol was a good teacher?’

  ‘The best.’ The reply came out before Rosamund realised that at no point in their c
onversation had she made any mention of Celine. ‘Oh, but I never …’

  ‘No, you didn’t. But you don’t think you would have got even this far without us making a few enquiries, do you?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ Rosamund was crestfallen.

  Miss Kilgarth obviously realised that as far as the loss of Celine de Rossignol was concerned, the wound was still raw. ‘We all have reasons for doing what we do, Miss Hanbury. Those reasons are often based on tragedy. Or on wanting some kind of revenge.’ She spoke evenly, with unemotional and measured tones. ‘It’s as well to put these motivations on one side. They can make us irrational, and irrationality clouds judgement. You’ll need all your wits about you if you are to succeed in this job.’

  ‘But I …’

  ‘You don’t even know what that job is yet? Yes, I know.’

  Rosamund began to feel discomfited by Doris Kilgarth’s unfailing ability to predict her every thought; to anticipate her every question.

  ‘You’ll find my manner irritating, infuriating even, but years of experience and more than a few interviews have taught me a lot – not least, what goes through the minds of new recruits.’

  Rosamund was rattled. ‘But I’ve not agreed to anything yet.’

  ‘No. You haven’t. But I hope that you will. Everything I know about you, everything I’ve found out about you – and that’s quite a lot – leads me to believe that you could be very useful.’

  ‘To whom?’ she asked, a touch more belligerently than she intended.

  ‘To your country. To the people you care about; though, as I say, it is as well to leave them out of your reckoning. The more dispassionate you can become, the less you’ll be hurt in the long run.’

  ‘It all sounds rather soulless. Rather cold-blooded.’ Rosamund turned her head away and looked across the park, her mind reeling under a mixture of confusing and conflicting emotions.

  ‘It’s not easy, that’s for sure. But from what I know of your abilities, you can do it. And you’ll find it rather more challenging than holding bring-and-buy sales and knitting mufflers.’

  Now Rosamund was really unnerved. It was as if Doris Kilgarth had been an invisible presence at conversations she had had over the past few weeks – not just with the likes of Lord Belgate and Sir Patrick Felpham, but even with Diana Molyneux and her aunt Venetia. She was reminded of the fact that she had so far said nothing to her aunt about her intention of being part of the war effort; that it would come as a great shock to her.

  ‘Of course, I shall have to talk to my aunt.’ Then, realising that her remark might be misconstrued, ‘To tell her that I plan to … enlist … join up or whatever. I won’t give any details, obviously, but I can’t just disappear. She’d worry …’

  Doris Kilgarth shook her head. ‘I think you’ll discover that she knows more than you think.’

  ‘She can’t. I’ve not said anything – to anyone – and certainly not to her. The only person who knows is …’ she chose her words carefully, ‘someone who works in another department.’

  Miss Kilgarth smiled, almost pityingly, it seemed. ‘Diana Molyneux is not the only person who knows of your talents, and neither is she the only person who is apprised of what I hope are your intentions.’

  Rosamund stared at the older woman in disbelief, laced with more than a hint of wariness.

  ‘But …’

  ‘Your aunt is worldly wise, take my word for it. She might look fragile, and appear to be intent on nothing more than a life of pleasure, but she knows that pleasure comes at a price. It’s a price she pays through all manner of machinations.’

  Before Rosamund could ask what she meant by that remark, Doris Kilgarth stood up. ‘Is that the time? I must be off.’ Fixing Rosamund with her gimlet eye, she added, ‘Don’t be long making up your mind. I think you know what this job entails – to some degree, at any rate. You will be far from home, you will be in considerable danger and you will find it hard to know who to trust. But I think you have what it takes, and if you can keep your wits about you, I think you can make a great contribution to the war effort. And that’s what you want to do, I suspect? I’ll give you till the end of the week, Miss Hanbury. You have my number. Goodbye.’

  Rosamund watched as the sturdy being that was Doris Kilgarth set off at a brisk pace in the direction from whence she came, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach and a battery of unanswered questions in her head– more than a handful of them concerning her aunt Venetia.

  ‘I don’t know whether to be angry or relieved!’ confessed Rosamund to her aunt. They were taking tea in the first-floor drawing room; Rosamund was perched as usual on the edge of the padded window seat, while her aunt, in a floral Hartnell creation, half reclined on a sofa so generously furnished with brocade-covered cushions that she seemed in serious danger of suffocation. It was an elegant room, as befitted an elegant woman – the furniture a mixture of Regency and Louis Quinze, the carpet Aubusson and the pale yellow walls decorated with portraits of minor aristocrats painted by Romney and Ramsay. The overall feeling was of studied elegance, but there was clearly much about her aunt Venetia that was studied – not least her knowledge of what was going on around her. She might give the impression of being unworldly and ethereal, but the razor-sharp mind was clearly in no need of a whetstone.

  ‘Never underestimate the elderly,’ murmured her aunt, as she poured more hot water from the kettle into the silver teapot beside it.

  Rosamund became reflective. ‘I did wonder how we were always able to get food …’

  ‘Now don’t go thinking that I get special treatment. Not on that sort of scale anyway. There are enough people in this country trying to beat the system – petrol, meat and suchlike – and I refuse to be a party to it, however much I might feel the pinch at times. The black market: I won’t have any truck with that. The powers that be are kind enough to help us out – a little – but I most certainly do not use their supplies for my own – our own – needs. It is strictly for my lunch and dinner parties. A means to an end. A little entertaining to oil the wheels. The rest of the time we really do have to rely on Mrs Heffer’s brother and what he can produce on that little patch of earth in Putney. You would hardly call her cock-a-leekie soup a gastronomic triumph, now would you?’

  The recollection struck Rosamund forcibly. ‘No.’

  ‘Well then …’

  Rosamund turned the conversation back to her own circumstances. ‘But you really don’t mind me … doing my bit?’

  ‘Of course I mind. The prospect terrifies me. You could have a quiet time here – well, as quiet a time as the bombs and the devastation will permit. But how would you feel later in life, and how would I feel, having selfishly clung on to you?’ The old woman put down her cup and saucer and sat back among the cushions. ‘Certain circumstances demand certain actions. There is nothing I would like more than the freedom to visit Venice and Rome and Florence again, to dine regularly at The Ritz and The Dorchester. But to be able to do that, we have to fight for it – each and every one of us. And since you won’t allow me to use a Bren gun, whatever that might be, I shall have to fight by other means, and so will you.’

  ‘I thought you’d be horrified,’ explained Rosamund, with a note of surprise in her voice.

  ‘I am horrified. Horrified at what your mother and father would think of me encouraging you. And don’t imagine that I am totally convinced that I am doing the right thing. I already wake up at nights shivering sometimes, wondering why on earth I do what I do, and why I should expect you to be a part of it when you haven’t even begun your own life. Please don’t imagine for a second that I rest easy at the prospect.’

  Rosamund got up from the window seat and walked across to her aunt, kneeling at her feet and taking both her hands in her own. ‘Don’t worry …’

  ‘Fatuous thing to say! Of course I shall worry – day and night until you return. And I shall think it all my own fault if anything should happen to you.’

  �
�You mustn’t. Really you mustn’t. It’s my decision and mine alone.’

  Aunt Venetia shook her head. ‘Why don’t you just drive buses? Or act as a chauffeur for some government bigwig? I have plenty of contacts; I know I could fix it for you.’

  ‘Too late to back down now. And, anyway, you know it would be a waste of what little talent I have. I learned to drive on the farm in Devonshire, but it’s my French – thanks to darling Celine – that makes me useful. I should use it. I must use it. Somehow it’s the only way to make sense of Celine’s death, don’t you see?’

  Aunt Venetia flopped back amid her nest of cushions. ‘Oh, I do see; that’s the trouble. But I’m not at all sure that I should encourage you.’

  ‘Well, don’t. Just resign yourself to the fact that I’m a young girl from the country who is headstrong and wilful and so determined that you will never deflect me from my intentions.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Her aunt pushed herself into an upright position and picked up her cup once more. ‘And how much of these “intentions” are at the behest of Mr Napier?’

  Rosamund sat back on her heels, at first surprised, but then reminded herself that she must get used to the fact that her aunt knew far more about her circumstances than she had been given credit for. ‘I don’t know.’ She hesitated.

  ‘I mean, it was Harry who set me off on the trail … but then the letter I had from him tried to discourage me from following it up.’

  ‘You mean, once he realised the danger in which he would be putting you?’

  ‘Yes. He told me on no account to go. Said that I should stay at home. Stay safe.’

  ‘So you would be flying in the face of that advice? Good advice probably.’

  ‘Yes.’ Rosamund seemed lost in thought.

  ‘Do you love him?’

  For the second time in as many minutes, Rosamund was taken aback by her aunt’s directness. ‘Yes, I do,’ she answered. ‘Very much.’